


Heart Duplex

by jamesiee, solarperigee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bringing in a Third, Communication, Connor McDavid Has Anxiety, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, idiots to lovers, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 06:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19661551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesiee/pseuds/jamesiee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarperigee/pseuds/solarperigee
Summary: “Oh, shit,” Dylan laughs, pointing at the screen. “What about this guy?”The description is objectively bad and Dylan has to bite his lip to keep a straight face while Connor reads it.What up I'm Mitch I'm 19 and my best friend fuckin ditched me to get a place with his hot swedish boyfriend so I need someone cool to make him jealousMust be chill w hockey (leafs 4 lyfe) gays (dick 4 lyfe) and video games (fortnite 4 lyfe)NO LIZARDS THEY SCARE ME“Oh my god,” Connor whispers in the flattest voice possible.





	Heart Duplex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [binchmarner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binchmarner/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [binchmarner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binchmarner/pseuds/binchmarner) in the [PuckingRare2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2019) collection. 



> For the prompt:  
> connor and dylan are in a relationship and realize that they're in love with mitch, dylan's roommate. sweet sweeeeet boyos.
> 
> binchmarner, we hope you enjoy this moronsexual romcom
> 
> Huge thanks to Cozy for beta reading this when he doesn't even GO here
> 
> Ant: my eternal love to Jayme, who joined me on this multiple-months-long fools' quest and put up with so much hollering and stopped me from an absurd amount of fact/reality checking  
> Jayme: thanks 2 Ant 4 kicking ass into writing and getting way too soft and letting me get way too soft

Dylan is sprawled between Connor's legs, back against his chest, as they scroll through the roommate wanted ads on Facebook. 

“What about him?” Connor says, pointing at the screen with the hand that's been toying with Dylan's waistband for the past twenty minutes. It’s less distracting than it was when they started an hour ago— and subsequently got side-tracked— more grounding to have Connor touching him while they finally figure out where Dylan is going to live for the year.

They’ve been putting it off for most of the summer, a combination of laziness and having better things to do when they’re together. 

Dylan squints at the description. “‘Business major, baseball fan, no parties, must be neat.’ Really?” Dylan makes a face.

He feels Davo shrug behind him. “Sounds harmless.”

“Sounds _boring_ ,” Dylan retorts, and then has to squirm away when Connor tries to pinch his side as revenge. 

He scrolls down more, doing his best to ignore Connor, who has gone back to mouthing at his shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” Dylan laughs, pointing at the screen, and if it comes out a little breathless, it's Connor's fault for moving to his neck. He swats at Connor's head to get his attention. “What about this guy?”

The description is objectively bad and Dylan has to bite his lip to keep a straight face while Connor reads it.

 _What up I'm Mitch I'm 19 and my best friend fuckin ditched me to get a place with his hot swedish boyfriend so I need someone cool to make him jealous_ _  
_ _Must be chill w hockey (leafs 4 lyfe) gays (dick 4 lyfe) and video games (fortnite 4 lyfe)_

**_NO LIZARDS THEY SCARE ME_ **

“Oh my god,” Connor whispers in the flattest voice possible, finally taking a break from vampireizing Dylan's neck and shoulder.

Dylan cackles. “He's perfect!”

Connor shoves him out of his lap. “You're going to get _murdered_ , Dyls.”

Dylan scrambles to keep his laptop from falling off the bed. “How? He said no lizards.”

“That cannot be where the bar is.”

“I mean, he isn't wrong. I don't trust those things either.”

“Dylan, you've never had a strong opinion about lizards in the whole six years I’ve known you.”

“Maybe I did and it just wasn't relevant to your story,” Dylan sniffs haughtily.

Connor rolls his eyes. “What the fuck does that _mean_?”

“Look, Condom McDildo—”

“I can't believe I thought it would be a good idea to introduce you to the team,” Connor says faintly.

“—some of us don't have a convenient hockey frat to live in—”

“It's not a frat!” Connor objects loudly.

“You're living together for team building purposes.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And,” Dylan continues, steamrolling over Connor's protests. “Some of us have boyfriends who can't keep their hands to themselves while roommate shopping—”

“YOU started grinding on ME—”

“So, some of us don’t have the luxury of being picky about possibly murderous roommates,” Dylan finishes.

“You could go with the guy I pointed out,” Connor says, crossing his arms. 

Dylan pats the closest part of Connor he can reach, his ankle. “Connor, he liked baseball. There are no moving plays in baseball.”

“You could room with me,” Connor protests weakly.

“Babe,” Dylan says, already typing. “Hallsy would fine us for every day I slept there and that would severely impact our Skip budget. We talked about this.”

Connor grumbles in response and when Dylan looks up, he's pouting, and damn him if he doesn’t know how weak Dylan is for him.

“How about this: let me finish this message and I'll suck your dick,” Dylan offers.

Connor perks up immediately, then squints suspiciously. “Is it to that lizard guy?”

“No,” Dylan mentally congratulates himself on having the patience of a saint. “He specifically said no lizards.”

_X_

Dylan meets Mitch for the first time at a Tim Horton’s. They both order ice capps with chocolate milk—Dylan can’t wait to tell Connor that someone else drinks them too— and Mitch leads Dylan to an empty table in the corner, doubling back on themselves when they realize they forgot straws. 

“So,” Dylan says, when they’re sitting across from each other. Mitch is shorter than Dylan expected, though he still manages to take up most of the space under the table, knees knocking into Dylan’s.

He's gangly (shut the fuck up, Connor, Dylan's an English major for a reason) and mostly elbows and mouth, but an easy confidence lurks in the lines of his body and Dylan can't help but envy him. 

Then, Mitch almost knocks over his drink while pulling a notepad out of his jacket pocket and Dylan decides he doesn't need to feel intimidated.

“So.” Mitch uses his teeth to rip the straw wrapper. “You need a roommate.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Dylan blinks. He bangs his straw on the table to get the end out. “Kinda seems like you do too, dude.” 

Mitch makes a face like he forgot, his nose scrunched. He uses his pen to flick a piece of straw wrapper at Dylan. “Who’d you get ditched by?” Mitch asks. 

“What makes you think I’ve been ditched?” Dylan brushes the paper off his hoodie. 

“Dude, you’re here looking for a roommate when school starts in, like, a week.” Mitch takes an obnoxious sip, somehow managing to slurp even though his ice capp isn’t nearly that melted. 

“Three weeks,” Dylan points out. “And you got ditched too.”

“No, I ditched, because I don’t want to listen to my best friend bone his boyfriend all semester now that they finally got their shit together. I got a GPA to keep up.” 

Dylan can’t tell if Mitch is being serious about his GPA; he doesn’t look like someone who cares about his grades chewing on his straw like that. “Does that mean I can’t bone my boyfriend or— ?” 

Mitch stops chewing and stares at Dylan, giant mouth open, for at least 30 seconds too long. Dylan shifts in his chair and wonders if he could get his own straw wrapper in Mitch’s mouth if he flicked it really hard.

“Well, I guess that answers my next question,” Mitch finally says, tapping his pen on his notepad. Dylan raises an eyebrow but Mitch doesn’t elaborate. “Do you like hockey?” he asks. 

“God, I hope so,” Dylan chirps. “I've been playing it for long enough.”

Mitch leans forward, any previous chill absolutely forgotten, and Dylan eyes his drink nervously. “Yeah? What'd'ya play?”

Dylan shrugs. “Anything but goalie. Center, when Connor— my boyfriend— lets me get away with it."

Mitch nods knowingly. “Ah,” he intones. “Centers.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Dylan laughs.

A wide grin cracks Mitch's solemn facade. “It means you're all the same, brah. Wing is where the talent's at.”

“Wo-o-ow.” Dylan finally gives into the urge to kick at Mitch’s feet under the table. Mitch takes it with a grin. “Y’know, my boyfriend thought you were gonna be a murderer or like, a psychopath or something. If you’re a winger, he might not be that far off.” 

Mitch lets out a startled laugh, throwing his head back.

“Oh my god,” Mitch gasps, wiping at his eyes with one hand. “My best friend said the same thing about you.”

“Oh my god,” Dylan echoes, joining him in helpless giggles.

“He's in disguise, 'cause he wouldn't let me come alone.”

Dylan scans the shop for a moment until his eyes land on someone by the door. The man is built like a brick shithouse, but most of him is conspicuously hidden behind a wide brimmed hat and an upside-down newspaper. They make eye contact and the man jerks the paper back in front of his face.

“Oh my god,” Dylan repeats. “He would make a terrible spy.”

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, waving to the newspaper. It rustles in response. “So, do you want to see the place?” Mitch pulls more papers out of nowhere.

“Uh, yeah,” Dylan agrees, grinning.

As it turns out, Mitch's best friend, the suspicious newspaper (apparently named Auston), used to share the apartment with Mitch, up until he decided to move in with his “hot swedish boyfriend” (apparently named William). Auston'd forgotten to tell Mitch until about two weeks before their lease renewal, leaving him scrambling for a new roommate.

Mitch tells him all of this between sips and while pointing at pictures of the apartment like he’s mapping out plays.

“So,” Mitch finishes. “Auston is taking the couch and the shit from his room, so you'll have to get, like, bedroom stuff, but we can go in on the couch together if you want. It's not the most convenient but rent is relatively cheap, we're close to DT campus, and I'm an awesome roommate.”

He leans back in his chair, looking very satisfied with himself.

Dylan stays hunched, looking at the pictures. It’s a nice apartment—nicer than Dylan expected if he’s being honest— with two decent sized bedrooms, a living space that’s the right size for a couch, two chairs, and a TV, and a kitchen that seems well used. The bathroom has a clean bathtub with a high showerhead and honestly, even without meeting Mitch, Dylan would be tempted to sign the lease just for a shower he doesn’t have to hunch to fit under.

“If uh, if you need some time to think about it, that’d be cool,” Mitch says. Dylan looks up from the pictures to see Mitch chewing on his bottom lip, for the first time looking less than sure of himself. He catches Dylan’s eye and shrugs. “I know it’s like, a big decision or whatever—” 

“Do you have a lease I can sign, or like, something? ” Dylan interrupts. Connor's probably going to be frustrated when he finds out, but he'll get over it when he meets Mitch.

“Yeah? You wanna move in?” Mitch’s smile takes over his entire face and Dylan would feel like the worst person in the world if he’s the reason it disappears. 

“Yeah, let’s do this.” 

Dylan accepts Mitch’s fistbump happily, and, feeling very magnanimous, doesn’t roll his eyes at Mitch’s “whoop!” and celly that knocks over their empty cups.

_X_ 

Connor makes it almost an hour after Dylan comes over tasting sweet like coffee before he asks about the lizard dude.

Dylan laughs, tossing his controller onto the couch between them.

“Is that what we're calling him? The lizard dude?”

Connor shrugs. “It felt more natural than saying ‘tell me about this lunatic you signed a lease with shortly after meeting him’.”

Dylan laughs again, but this time it doesn't make Connor's shoulders want to crawl to his ears. “He's not a lunatic, Davo,” Dylan says easily. “He's a winger, he likes chocolate milk, and his best friend is a bad spy.”

Connor blinks a few times. “There's so much to unpack there,” he decides after thinking about it for a bit.

Dylan shoves his controller off the couch so he can scoot into Connor's lap, sliding one hand into Connor's messy hair, letting his thumb press against the hinge of his jaw, where Connor holds his tension, forcing him to relax.

Dylan stares into his eyes for a long moment, and Connor would feel gooey and romanced if he didn't know that Dylan was zoning out looking for the words he wants.

As it is, Connor only feels moderately gooey and romanced, and he tries not to gaze back too adoringly.

Dylan has really beautiful eyes.

“Connie,” he starts, and Connor scowls at him, all gooeyness forgotten. “It's gonna be okay, okay? I know you don't like that he's a new variable, but he's good people, and I promise if he tries any weird shit, I'll break one of your hockey sticks over his head.”

Connor slumps against Dylan's chest, thankful for the height difference that lets him feel small next to Dylan. “How come it's my hockey stick?” he grumbles.

Dylan kisses the top of his head. “Because you leave your shit all over my room, that's why. That's not the point though, the point is, Mitch is harmless and when you meet him, I think you'll like him, okay?"

Connor closes his eyes against Dylan's shirt and breathes him in for a few long seconds. “Okay,” he says, finally.

Dylan runs his fingers through Connor's hair like a reward. “Are there any other things we need to talk about?”

Connor bites his lip. It isn't important. It's not, like, a real concern he has, just an anxious thought he can't shake.

“Connor?” Dylan tugs his hair gently to get his attention.

“What if you like him more than me?” Connor whispers, eyes still closed and ashamed.

“Oh, baby,” Dylan says, and Connor doesn't even want to try to identify the emotion overflowing those words. “No one could ever take your place in my heart. Not ever.”

“I'm just saying,” Connor tries to explain. “You'll be spending more time with him, probably, and what if—”

“Connor, baby,” Dylan interrupts, tilting Connor's chin up to make eye contact. “He isn't going to replace you. No one is. Okay?”

Connor studies Dylan's face, cataloguing the furrow between his brows, the intensity in his eyes, the slight gap between his lips as he waits for a response.

Connor takes a shuddering breath and pulls Dylan closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, okay.”

He doesn't say ‘I love you too,’ but that's okay. Dylan knows. 

_X_

The first time Mitch meets Dylan’s boyfriend, he almost breaks Dylan’s toe.

“Oh shit,” Mitch says as he loses his grip on his side of Dylan’s desk they’re bringing up to their third floor apartment, and it starts to slide down the stairs. Mitch was leading them to his—their apartment, walking backwards while Dylan got to walk forward and actually see where he was going. Mitch is pretty sure it’s not entirely his fault that his heel caught on the edge of a step, causing him to lose his already precarious grip on the narrow edge he had on the desk. 

The desk slams into the ground and it echoes in the stairwell. Dylan makes a sound that Mitch is pretty sure can be considered a yelp, and Mitch can’t believe that this roommate-ship is going to be over before it even really began because he accidentally broke his roommate with his own furniture. 

Mitch scrabbles to regain his grip, managing to take some of the weight for Dylan right as a man rounds the corner of the stairs at top speed. Mitch straightens up and forces himself to smile, ready to brush off the stranger's concern and finish dragging Dylan's two- tonne desk to his room.

The man runs his hand through his already fluffy hair. “Dylan, what the fuck?” he asks, sounding aggravated.

Dylan grimaces and tries to communicate something to Mitch with his eyebrows. Mitch stares.

“Hey, Connor,” Dylan says, like his mom just caught him with one hand in the cookie jar. He grunts as shifts his grip on the desk. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The stranger— Connor, scowls and grabs onto the side of the desk to help lift it. His biceps are seriously testing his shirt sleeves and also Mitch's focus, but the desk is immediately more manageable. “I told you not to move anything heavy until I got here.”

Dylan nods at Mitch to keep going, and he takes a very careful step up, then another, when the first doesn't lead to immediate death.

“Look,” Dylan tells Connor, giving Mitch a small, sly smile. “You're here now and we're moving something heavy! Mission accomplished.”

Mitch is busy trying to look over one shoulder and monitor Connor's scowl, and he almost doesn't catch Connor's less than witty reply of, “That's not what I meant and you kn—.”

They have one flight of stairs left, so Mitch does what any millennial would do and interrupts to yell, “pivot!”

Dylan has to set his end of the desk, he's laughing so hard. Connor's face cracks into a smile, and though it's probably directed at Dylan and his dumb giggles, Mitch can't help but feel like he's accomplished something when Connor turns a shy smile in his direction. 

With Connor's help, they make it up to the apartment in one piece and deposit the desk safely in the middle of Auston's old room. It's weird to see it empty, but it's not like Auston's dead or anything, so Mitch makes himself take a deep breath and calm down.

The next heavy item is Dylan's bed frame, still unassembled and in its box. Mitch reads the label out loud. “Queen size? That's a big mattress for just one person,” he smirks at Dylan, but Connor is the one to turn red.

Dylan smirks back, lifting his end of the box, and pointedly looking at Connor. 

Connor makes a strangled noise and goes even redder, bolting up the stairs with a box of books. 

Mitch looks upwards, as if he can see Connor through the stairs above him. “So,” he says. “That’s the boyfriend?”

“Yep,” Dylan replies, popping the p smugly. “That's him.”

Mitch holds out a fist. Dylan bumps it with his own, grinning. 

The rest of the move-in process goes fairly smoothly. Mitch falls up the stairs with an armload of boxes, but no one sees him so he pretends it didn't happen and that he isn't limping.

Finally, they're standing in Auston— no, Dylan's— room, surrounded by messily labelled boxes. The one nearest to Mitch says “books / pants” and he can see another across the room that reads “pants 2: electric boogaloo”.

“Well,” Dylan announces. “I think that's everything!”

He's standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, grinning proudly. His forehead shines a little with sweat and for a moment, Mitch can imagine him as a hero in one of the myths in the book Mitch dropped on his toe on the way in with his last load.

Connor wipes his own forehead on the hem of his shirt and Mitch takes a second to recognize that his hot roommate's hot boyfriend has several abs.

“So,” Mitch says, mentally crushing any attraction to either of them. “Pizza?”

Dylan glares sharply at Connor, who's looking at Mitch with a strange, wary hopefulness, and Mitch feels like he's missed something.

“Wh—” he starts, only to be interrupted by Dylan.

“Hey, Mitch. What do you think about pineapple on pizza?” Dylan says, somehow making the question sound like a threat, his eyes never leaving his boyfriend.

Mitch freezes, glancing between them. “It's… fine?” he hedges.

Connor's face breaks into a wide grin and Mitch is temporarily breathless, but that could also be because Dylan has elbowed him in the side.

“I mean,” he tries again. “I don't have a super strong opinion on it, but I don't think it's the worst thing in the world? Like, have you had a mushroom? Like, ever? That's not even food.”

Dylan doesn't look placated, but Connor's grin has calmed down to a smug smile, and he punches Mitch gently in the shoulder on the way by.

“You order it, Mitch,” Connor says over his shoulder. “I'm gonna start the couch and I don't think we can trust Dyls with either of those.”

Mitch takes one look at the perturbed expression on Dylan's face and just about cries from laughter.

He gets pineapple on half.

_X_

They fall into an easy routine.

Dylan wakes up first, most days, showers, fills the electric kettle with water, and brushes his teeth while it boils.

Mitch usually stumbles out of his room while Dylan is making his morning tea, eyes mostly shut, scratching at his bare chest with one hand and reaching for a mug with the other.

After the third morning mug theft in a row, Dylan had started getting down two. He always boils too much water anyway, a habit left over from a summer's worth of mornings making breakfast for Connor. From there, it was an obvious jump to making Mitch's tea as well; having seen him adulterate Dylan's enough times, Dylan knows that he likes a splash of milk and a godawful amount of sugar.

Mitch always looks so pleased after the first sip, licking his lips like a cat, eyes closed blissfully.

Then, Mitch saunters off to shower and Dylan tracks down all the books he needs for the day and crams them into his beat up backpack.

Sometimes Mitch gets ready fast enough to ride with Dylan, but sometimes the only response Dylan's “rolling out in 5” gets is a garbled “bye!”.

On the days that they carpool, Dylan drives. Mitch isn't a morning person, before or after his tea, so he alternates between dozing against the window and fiddling with the radio.

Somehow he always finds the one station playing Bon Jovi, the only music guaranteed to have him bopping along regardless of how tired he is.

They split off once they reach campus; Mitch is a kinesiology major, while Dylan chose the much more useful path of an English degree.

For the most part, Dylan loves being an English major. He loves the reading, the research, the arguing, the analysis. He loves reading poetry to Connor and trying to see if he blushes harder at Shakespearean sonnets or Sappho's lyrics. Currently, Connor responds best to the sonnets, but it could be argued that was because he actually speaks English and not ancient Greek.

Dylan and Connor had specifically built their schedules to give them time to get lunch together, after Dylan's World Lit class and Connor's Myth and Memory in Canadian History class. At least once a week they end up with a wayward hockey player or five, but as loud and rambunctious as they are, they’ll kick their own asses before they let someone be mean to Connor, so Dylan is fine with seeing them outside of hockey. 

Sometimes they forget Dylan doesn't live in the same clown car of an apartment that they do, and try to bring him into jokes he doesn't get, but it's sweet. Most of them are chirps about Connor's obsession with the Christmas Truce, so Dylan can mostly figure them out. Being Connor's boyfriend is a little like having a literature seminar you didn't sign up for but have to pass. Dylan has a reading list and everything.

Connor's a history nerd, maybe the biggest Dylan has ever met, but he's Dylan's history nerd, so it's okay. He’ll read whatever Connor wants when he’s able to with his course load.

_X_

It's a little weird to be living without Auston, but Dylan is a decent substitute. He's around enough that Mitch doesn't get lonely, but his Monday and Wednesday classes go late enough that Mitch has a couple hours alone to goof off without fear of being judged.

Which he is most certainly taking advantage of, dancing around the kitchen, singing along to a Spotify playlist he knows by heart.

There's a pot of his mother's chicken noodle soup bubbling on the stove and pan of lasagna in the oven. He'll probably freeze half of each and alternate the rest for dinner throughout the week, depending on what Dylan wants more.

" _I wanna dance with somebody_ ," he shouts into a carrot, shimmying his hips. " _I wanna feel the heat with somebody_!"

Mitch peels the carrot deftly, pausing every few strokes to belt out another line.

He thinks he hears the front door slam, but it isn't followed by Dylan hollering a greeting, so he decides it came from down the hall.

"— _With somebody who loves me_ ," he finishes the song with a dramatic pose, vegetable peeler thrust into the air like a sword.

"Um," he hears in the sudden silence between songs.

"Fuck!" Mitch jumps, scrambling to turn off the music before the next song— Tainted Love— can fill the kitchen.

He turns around, a little out of breath, to find Dylan's boyfriend, Connor, standing awkwardly in the doorway, backpack hanging from one shoulder. "Hey, hi, how did you get in here?"

Connor hooks a thumb toward the front door. "The door was unlocked," he says, sounding embarrassed. "I thought Dyls left it open for me."

Mitch runs his fingers through his hair and tries to calm his heartbeat. "Dylan's in class," he blurts, as if Connor hadn't figured that out yet. "You can wait here for him if you want?"

Connor's broad shoulders lose some of the tension they'd been carrying and he smiles a little. "You sure? I can just hide in his room until he comes back. No need to interrupt your party."

Mitch had actually meant that Connor could wait in Dylan's room, but he isn't one to leave a chirp unanswered, and besides, with the soup and lasagna doing their respective things, he was getting kind of bored chopping carrots into sticks on his own.

"Sure," he teases. "If you think you can keep up."

Connor smiles fully at that, and tosses his backpack toward the living room. "Play that funky music, white boy," he orders, sounding at least four times his actual age.

Mitch laughs, but does as he's told, shaking his ass to the music just to hear Connor's delighted woop.

Eventually, Mitch slides a bowl of carrot sticks across the counter to Connor. "I'm sorry we don't have, like, ranch or hummus or anything," he says, a little self conscious about their bare pantry. "But, y'know, college."

Connor smiles and crunches into a carrot stick. "Nah, I get it. In the hockey apartment we have, like, cap’n crunch, KD, and maybe ketchup."

Mitch leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing the timer on the oven and deciding he has time for a couple carrot sticks before the lasagna is done. "Yeah, Dylan mentioned you live in a frat… apartment? What's up with that?"

Connor rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "The coaches mentioned that spending time together outside of practice would be good for team cohesion or whatever, and Hallsy— Taylor Hall— took that to mean that we needed to fit as many people into one place as possible, as if we didn't hang out enough normally."

Mitch nods, a little blindsided by getting so many words out of Connor at once. "Hallsy's your captain?"

"Nah, he wishes," Connor laughs. "He’s one of the A’s. I think he just wanted easy access to all his friends for movie nights and parties and shit. He's, like, a junior, I think? But everyone calls his line Kid Line, even though the all wear A’s and like are in charge and shit? Ferknuckle was our captain, but he graduated last year.” 

"I think I'm gonna need a diagram for this," Mitch tells him, only half joking.

Connor nods like that's a normal thing to ask for. "Dyls has flashcards."

Mitch throws his head back and laughs.

"No, I'm serious," Connor insists, laughing too. "He can't remember who anyone is and we've been dating for the whole time I've been on the team."

"Man," Mitch sighs, shaking his head. "What a trash boyfriend."

He regrets the joke as soon as it leaves his mouth, but Connor laughs before he can apologize.

"He's not so bad. He gave me his pudding cup at lunch every day for like a year before we started dating."

Mitch has some questions about that, namely 'who made the move' and 'was that Dylan's best attempt at flirting' but he's interrupted by the oven timer going off.

"Oh, hey," he says, slipping on his oven mitts and leaning down to open the oven. "Do you want lasagna?"

"Oh, hell yeah, what brand is it?" Connor asks enthusiastically and Mitch nearly drops the pan on the floor.

"What brand?" he repeats, goggling at Connor. "It's my mom's recipe, you heathen, oh my god."

Connor, to his credit, tries to look sheepish, but mostly looks hungry. "How was I supposed to know you were Canada's next Chopped Champion?"

"It's not that hard to make lasagna, Connor, what the fuck?"

Connor shrugs, apparently not even pretending to feel bad anymore. "The frozen aisle treats me pretty well," he says, unashamed.

Against his better judgement, Mitch slides a plate of lasagna across the counter. "It's a miracle you haven't died of scurvy yet."

Connor takes a cheerful bite and then makes a sound like he's trying to breathe fire.

"Careful," Mitch warns belatedly, resting a hip against the counter. "It's hot."

"I hate you," Connor informs him, eyes watering. "I hate you but this is so good please can I marry your mom."

"I think someone might have a problem with that, bud," Mitch laughs.

"Who? Dylan? He'll understand, I'm pretty sure he can only make KD," Connor says through a mouth full of pasta.

"Jesus Christ," Mitch sighs. "It's a miracle he hasn't died of scurvy either."

"He takes vitamins," Connor says, with a delighted little gleam in his eye. "The gummy kind."

Mitch laughs again. "Why are you telling me this shit?"

Connor slices off another bite of lasagna with the side of his fork. "Someone has to chirp him for it and I can't be everywhere at once."

"Oh, I see, you only wanna be friends so I can bully your boyfriend for you when you're not around."

Connor nods. "The boy needs more bullying; have you met him? He needs to be shoved into a locker."

Mitch is saved from having to defend Dylan to his own boyfriend by the sound of Dylan himself arriving.

"Mitchy," he hollers from the foyer, slamming the door behind him. There's the thud of his backpack hitting the floor, followed by two smaller thuds— his shoes bouncing off the wall. "I'm home," he singsongs.

"In the kitchen," Mitch hollers back.

Connor raises his eyebrows and Mitch tries not to blush.

"Look," he whispers. "It's not like that."

"Not like what?" Dylan asks, rounding the corner and immediately opening the fridge to dig out a can of pop.

" _Mitchy_ was just trying to tell me that he's not your housewife," Connor says with a smirk.

"Aw, damn," Dylan says, leaning against the counter next to Mitch so he can reach the carrot sticks. "Sorry to disappoint, Davo, I thought I'd wifed him already."

"There will be no wifing in this apartment," Mitch declares, a little shrill and almost certainly approaching tomato sauce color. Then, desperate to change the subject, "Dylan! Do you want lasagna?"

"Oh, shit, do I!" Dylan says, appropriately ecstatic. Mitch relaxes slightly and carves off another square of noodles and sauce.

Dylan accepts his plate and circles to the other side of the counter to sit by Connor, who leans into him the second they're side-by-side. Dylan presses a kiss to the top of Connor's head, sliding an arm around his back.

Connor tilts his head back to smile up at him. "Hi," he says quietly, and Mitch busies himself with washing the knives he used.

"Hey," Dylan replies, equally tender.

"Do you wanna proofread my paper for Pre-Confederation Maritimes after dinner?"

Mitch hears Dylan laugh softly. "You sure know how to sweet-talk a boy, Davo."

Connor replies, "Nah, just you," and Mitch's chest aches for something he cannot name.

_X_

Mitch kind of hates Willy. Or, no, scratch that. Mitch hates that he can't hate Willy. Or something.

Like, he's tried, but Willy is just some kind of magical unhateable best-friend-stealing swedish god, so it doesn't actually work, and Mitch thinks he’s allowed to be bitter about that, thank you very much.

Willy is actually the one who answers the door when Mitch shows up, on short notice but not without warning, with a six pack of hard cider.

It's tasty.

“Mitch, hey,” Willy says, smiling like he's actually excited to see Mitch. “Auston said you were coming over.”

“Hi, yeah,” Mitch says, trying to remember that he's talking to the man who seduced Mitch's best friend away from him and not some kind of blonde angel. “He said that and I'm here!”

Willy laughs, like Mitch said something funny or like Willy is trying to throw him off his game, and ushers him inside.

“You can leave your shoes on or take them off, it's up to you,” Willy says over his shoulder, walking into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

“I, uh, nah,” Mitch calls after him, wobbling precariously as he tries to toe off his runners. “I have these.” He jangles the six-pack and immediately regrets it when he realizes they're probably going to fizz over when he opens them.

Luckily, Auston chooses that moment to come wandering out of the bedroom, wearing what could generously be called athleisure wear, or realistically called ugly.

“Hey, Mitchy!” Auston looks at least as excited to see him as Willy was, so Mitch mentally extends his contract as best friend.

“Hey, Aus,” Mitch replies, going in for a bro hug and getting a full hug. “Long time no see, eh?”

Auston laughs a little, using the hug to drag Mitch over to the couch. “Yeah, classes've been heating up, and the mister's been keeping me pretty busy.”

Mitch makes a face. “Dude, gross.”

Willy comes out of the kitchen with a bag of Doritos. “What's gross?” he asks, somehow popping one in his mouth without getting orange dust all over his hands.

“Auston's style,” Mitch says quickly.

Willy nods seriously. “Pretty wack, bro.”

Auston scoffs from the floor, where he's messing with the Xbox. “You wish you looked like this.”

Mitch claps back with a witty, “you wish I wished I looked like that,” because Willy has apparently decided to be useless and stare at Auston's ass.

Auston gives him a look that says he's being crazy again, and Mitch gives him one that's supposed to say _no, actually, you're being crazy_ , but Auston doesn't seem to get it.

Willy's phone rings, and he hands Mitch the chips so he can take the call, wandering out of the room to do so.

Mitch flops onto the couch, sighing as loudly as possible.

Auston keeps flipping through games, so Mitch sighs louder.

“What?” Auston says, without nearly enough actual concern. Mitch mentally places him on waivers for the position of best friend.

“My roommate's perfect boyfriend's been over all week and, like, it's nice to see Dylan happy, 'cause he's been so stressed lately, but oh my god his _boyfriend._ ”

Auston rolls his eyes, but pops the top off a cider and hands it to him with minimal whiny noises at the overflow, so Mitch considers resigning him. “You talk about him a lot, dude. You sure you don't have a crush?”

“That's preposterous,” Mitch says haughtily, taking a moment to appreciate Dylan's word of the day calendar and also take a swig of his cider.

“Yeah,” Auston snorts. “And I didn't fuck Willy where you're sitting.”

Mitch squawks indignantly, and almost spills his cider by launching himself off the couch. Auston just laughs at him.

“I need new friends,” Mitch whines, half under the coffee table.

“Well, bud, it sounds like you have one.”

Mitch whines again. “Not to sound straight, but what if he thinks I'm hitting on him?”

“Then you clarify that you aren't, because you respect his relationship? I don't see what the big deal is, bud.”

“But what if I _want_ to hit on him? What if you're right and I have a crush? Does that make me a homewrecker? Can I even be a homewrecker if we live in the same apartment?”

Auston gives Mitch a look like he’s being ridiculous that he really doesn’t need because Mitch knows he’s being ridiculous, he knows okay. He just— he can’t help himself, the way that he gets distracted whenever Dylan is in the room, the way it’s easy for Mitch to turn towards him, like a compass to the North, the lengths he goes to to make Dylan laugh. 

Dylan, for all that he acts grumpy when given the chance, is not actually always grumpy. Mitch gets to see him soft and warm and rumpled in their apartment and it’s a lot to handle. Throw in the special smile he has specifically for when someone mentions Connor and it’s a lot for Mitch to handle, especially when he thinks about the separate, special, shared-joke grins that Connor has for each of them. 

“They’re like, the perfect couple,” Mitch sighs, lifting himself back onto the couch. If he’s going to whine dramatically, he wants to be comfortable. 

“Hey!”

“What?” Mitch squints at Auston. Auston stares back until he’s distracted by Willy finishing his phone call. He makes himself comfortable between Auston and the arm of the couch, more on Auston than anything as he snuggles in. Once he’s settled, Auston looks back at Mitch and gestures between himself and Willy. 

“We’re the perfect couple,” Auston says. Willy hums an affirmative, giving Auston a kiss on the cheek.

Mitch rolls his eyes. “Oh fuck off.” 

“Oh, hey,” says Willy, as if he's noticing something for the first time. “Auston fucked me on that couch.”

Mitch groans and lets himself slide off the couch like a limp noodle.

_X_

Connor gets out of class early. His backpack weighs a thousand pounds, he pulled an all-nighter to study for an exam he's half sure he just failed, his runners are still soggy from the rain, and if he stands still too long he's probably going to fall asleep.

The bus drops him off at the parking deck and he's in the driver's seat of his car with no memory of getting on the bus at all.

The drive home— no, to Dylan's place— passes in a similar blur and if he were any more present, Connor would be concerned for the safety of, like, everyone else on the road.

It's fine. He's fine.

_X_

Mitch opens the door and for a split second, he's absolutely certain the zombie apocalypse has arrived and Connor is here to kill him.

Connor's eyes are bloodshot, the circles under them deep and bruised. His hair is a wreck, standing up on one side like he's been running his hands through it all day, flat on the other like he slept on a desk, which, looking at the rest of him, might not be inaccurate. There's coffee on the front of his shirt, which is actually the back of his shirt, if the tag sticking out by his neck is anything to go by.

“Jesus Christ,” Mitch says, stepping aside to let the walking corpse in and hoping he won't notice the concern Mitch can't quite hide. “Are you okay, man?

Connor flaps a hand at him, leans down to untie his shoes and then looks shocked when his backpack slides forward to hit him in the head.

“Jeez, bud, lemme help you,” Mitch says, slowly reaching out and feeling oddly like he's trying to soothe a wild animal.

Connor rights himself, still looking mostly asleep and as shitty as someone with that bone structure can. His head nods forward and jerks back up a couple times while Mitch slides his bag off his shoulders and helps him out of his jacket.

Mitch has to prop him against the door before he can take off his soaking wet, nasty shoes.

What he really wants to do is bully Connor into a warm shower and throw his clothes in the dryer, but he isn't sure if Connor could stay awake long enough for that.

“C'mon,” Mitch whispers, leading him to sit on the couch. “At least take your jeans off?”

Connor smiles sleepily, falling back in his elbows to gaze up at Mitch through his lashes. “Tryna get me naked, Marns?”

Mitch's heart flips and he pushes it down in favor of as much Bro-ness as he can conjure. “You're not getting my couch all gross with your nasty pants,” he says. Then tacks on a “dude” at the end for good measure.

Connor unzips his jeans and shoves them off with a practiced roll of his hips that Mitch will be remembering in great detail and shame later.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, accepting the wad of wet denim when Connor holds it out to him.

Connor doesn't answer, already asleep, arms wrapped around a pillow.

Mitch stares at him for a long moment, drinking in the peacefulness that's taken over his face.

A drop of cold water hits his bare toe and Mitch flinches, remembering that he's holding Connor's pants.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Get a grip.”

He throws Connor's wet clothes in the washing machine, then goes back to his room to get his own dirty laundry. It would be wasteful to run a whole cycle with an almost empty machine.

He drags a blanket over Connor on his way back to his room, and then settles back down on his bed to fuck with his Sims some more.

_X_

Dylan is in the middle of mentally congratulating himself for remembering his umbrella when a gust of wind temporarily makes the downpour into more of a sidepour.

He sighs and resolves to buy a real raincoat as soon as possible.

The first draft of his World Lit paper on love and heroes is due next week and he's barely figured out what he wants to argue, let alone actually started it.

Dylan spends the rest of the walk brainstorming ideas and he totally means to start the paper when he walks into the apartment, but all of that goes out the window when he sees Connor curled up on the couch, fast asleep under the quilt Mitch's grandmother gave him when he graduated high school.

Dylan drops his backpack unceremoniously on the floor, strips out of his damp jacket and shoes, and climbs over Connor to get between him and the back of the couch. Connor immediately foils his plans to be the big spoon by rolling over so they're face to face. As soon as Dylan's wiggled under the blanket, Connor presses into his side, throwing an arm over him like he's a teddy bear.

Dylan squints at his face, but Connor shows no signs of actually waking up, so Dylan relaxes and lets his eyes drift closed and his breathing sync up with Connor's slow, steady breaths.

He'll write the paper later.

_X_

Mitch has drowned four Sims in the pool by removing the ladder and hasn't managed to successfully fuck the grim reaper when he realizes that his back kind of hurts from hunching over the laptop and he's starving.

He saves the game and shuts his laptop, then wanders out into the living room, yawning and scratching his stomach. It had gotten dark while he was committing Sim-icide, apparently, and the living room is cozy and dim, lit only by the light from the kitchen.

Dylan's asleep on the couch with Connor, curled between him and the back of the couch, the two of them like a pair of parentheses, and one of them snoring softly. It's kind of cute, actually, even if Mitch is frustratingly jealous of both of them.

He stares for a minute before abruptly deciding against KD, and searching for the red icon of Skipthedishes on his phone.

He orders Chinese— Connor likes chicken lo mein and Dylan likes anything that lets him avoid confessing that he can't use chopsticks, so he usually gets hot and sour soup.

When he's done, Mitch turns back to the couch. Connor and Dylan look warm and soft, wrapped in each other and Mitch's quilt, and Mitch _wants_. He presses a hand to his chest, pushing down hard where he feels a deep ache, but the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Mitch resigns himself to bugging Auston tomorrow for pre-class cuddles when Dylan cracks an eye open and stares at Mitch staring at him. It’s Connor who’s snoring, Mitch realizes the longer he and Dylan keep eye contact. 

“Bring another blanket and c’mere,” Dylan finally says.

“Pardon?” 

“I’m cold,” Dylan says, wiggling. 

Mitch isn’t sure why he does it, but he does what he’s told and gets another blanket, going down to his room to grab one off his bed because they’re already using the designated living room blanket. Dylan apparently closed his eyes in the three-and-a-half seconds it takes Mitch to go get the requested blanket, and he’s left standing stupidly with in their living room, watching his roommate and his boyfriend sleep, again.

“Uh, Dylan?” Mitch asks.

“Shhh, s’nap time Mitch. Either join or shut up,” Dylan mumbles, patting the space between him and Connor. 

Leaving his phone on the coffee table where he'll be sure to hear it if it rings, he carefully climbs on top of them. Mitch figures he can always play it off as a joke later.

Dylan makes a grumbly sound under him and Mitch freezes, but all Dylan does is squirm more firmly against the cushions behind him, letting Mitch slip between him and Connor. Mitch holds his breath, but Dylan's breath goes steady, and his arm curves around Mitch's waist, fingertips resting just above Mitch's belly button. Connor, for his part, buries his face in the crook of Mitch's neck.

Mitch doesn’t mean to, but he falls asleep between one breath and the next.

_X_ 

Connor wakes up overly warm and little squished, but he’s not too mad about either, because he can feel someone breathing on his neck and there’s not much that Connor likes more than waking up with Dylan. He keeps his eyes closed while he stretches, willing feeling back into his toes, and wonders how long he slept to feel this human after staying up all night.

A sharp intake of breath causes him to squint suspiciously in the direction it came from and he’s not as surprised as he probably should be to see that Mitch has also made himself comfortable in the cuddle puddle, somehow being spooned by Dylan while also half on top of Connor. That at least explains why Connor is so hot under the blanket that he’s pretty sure he wasn’t under when he passed out. 

“Sup?” Connor says, shifting a little so Mitch’s knee isn’t directly in his hip. Once that’s fixed, it should be weird how comfortable Connor is with the way Mitch fits with him and Dylan. 

It’s not at all though.

Dylan snuffles and tightens his grip around Mitch’s chest when it looks like Mitch is trying to get up. Mitch blinks at Connor, the beginning of a blush starting high on his cheeks. 

“Oh, he’s like an octopus, watch out.” Connor warns around a yawn. Mitch doesn’t move. “You’re stuck there until he has to pee.”

“Shuddup, McCuddles,” Dylan mumbles, cutting off whatever Mitch was going to say. He reaches around Mitch to smack Connor, and doesn’t fight hard when Connor grabs his hand to thread their fingers together, instead making a happy noise and burying his face deeper into Mitch’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Mitch says. 

Connor shrugs as best he can laying horizontal. “Don’t apologize for cuddles, c’mon man.” 

Mitch nods absently, and both he and Connor jump when the doorbell rings. Neither of them move for a couple seconds, or maybe it’s more; Connor’s not sure why he’s never noticed how blue Mitch’s eyes are before, so much lighter than Dylan’s brown eyes but no less pretty. 

They jump again when a shout announcing a food delivery is accompanied by a knocking at the door.

“Someone gonna get that?” Dylan says into Mitch’s shirt as Connor asks louder, “Did you order food?”

“Yes?” Mitch doesn’t sound sure. Connor has no idea which question he’s answering. He tries to roll off the couch, realizing too late that he can’t move with Mitch’s weight pinning him into the cushions. 

“Oh shit,” Connor starts, but before he asks Mitch to let him, Mitch is up and going to the door and Connor feels his sudden absence like the draft in his room at the hockey frat.

“Why couldn’t you get the door?” Dylan says, apparently awake enough to be grumpy and making a sad face at Connor. 

“Wasn’t fast enough.”

Dylan sighs. “He’s a really good cuddler,” he announces unapologetically. His hair is sticking up wildly and he has a crease from the arm of the couch across his cheek that Connor wants to kiss. 

“That’s not a surprise,” he says instead. Dylan rolls his eyes, fondly probably, and tries to headbutt Connor’s chin. He misses and gets a forehead kiss instead.

“I uh, got enough for all of us.”

Connor rolls over so his back is to Dylan’s chest. Mitch is holding a bag from their favorite Chinese place and most of his hair is pressed against his skull while the rest is doing its best hedgehog impression. Connor wants to smooth it down for Mitch if he’d let him. Behind him, Dylan sits up, taking a blanket with him. 

“Mitch, oh my god, you’re the best roommate ever!” Dylan says. He pokes at Connor until he sits up too and they make space between them for Mitch to sit. Mitch takes the spot with half a look at Connor and sets the bag on the coffee table.

“This one’s lo mein. I got you extra veggies, 'cause I have money on you winning MVP this season,” Mitch says, handing him the pail and ignoring the disgusted sound Dylan makes.

Connor feels warm in his stomach. He opens in the box and realizes how hungry he actually is when he smells the grease. 

“You’re the best, Mitch,” he says softly, breaking apart his chopsticks, and hoping Mitch gets how much he means it. 

Mitch opens his mouth to disagree, and Dylan grabs a piece of chicken out of the container with his bare unwashed hand and shoves it in Mitch's mouth, narrowly avoiding being bitten. Mitch's eyes get big, probably in outrage, but he looks like he's trying not to laugh, and he chews the chicken about as gracefully as can be expected.

Connor lets himself rest his head on Mitch's shoulder for a moment, while he shakes helplessly with laughter.

Mitch swallows with an audible gulp before saying, “Okay, Dylan, I see how it is. Maybe I'll keep the soup to myself.”

He leans into Connor, away from Dylan, to hold the container as far away as possible.

Connor's stomach does that weird thing again, where he feels like he drank his coffee too fast, and he shovels noodles into his mouth to cover up any weirdness.

“Noooo,” Dylan whines, making grabby hands for the soup.

Mitch holds out for an impressive twenty seconds before caving to the pressure of Dylan's puppy eyes.

Mitch sighs and rolls his eyes, snapping apart his own chopsticks and digging into his own pail of ginger beef, according to the smell.

Connor's eyes drift shut for a moment and he savors his lo mein.

On Mitch's other side, Dylan slurps at his soup as obnoxiously as possible, and Connor nearly chokes on a pepper from trying not to giggle.

_X_

Mitch catches Dylan staring at his mouth on a Tuesday. 

They’re in their living room, and supposed to be doing homework— Mitch has an exam on proprioception and sensory nerves coming up, while Dylan’s partner might actually kill him if he doesn’t contribute to their google doc soon— and theoretically Dylan knew that Mitch sticks things in his mouth to concentrate. Or, sticks his tongue out. Or bites his lips. They have actually successfully done homework together before, but either Mitch wasn’t concentrating hard enough then to bite his lips, or Dylan was concentrating too hard and missed all of that. 

It’s a toss up really, who knows. 

This time though, Dylan is analyzing a particularly boring Keats poem and he can’t find a rhythm in his homework. Plus Mitch is mumbling under his breath while he works, loud enough to be heard over the dumb country radio station he put on for background noise, and Dylan probably should find it annoying, but it reminds him of Connor, who does the exact same thing when he studies.

It’s endearing is what Dylan is saying. And distracting because Dylan keeps looking at Mitch’s mouth and his lips. They’re plush, like two fat caterpillars on top of one another if most caterpillars were the perfect pink colour, slightly chapped, and if one had a dent that makes Mitch’s cupid’s bow. (Dylan should probably read more good poetry so his similes stop involving bugs.) Dylan knows that Mitch presses his lips together when he’s trying not to laugh at someone’s expense, and he knows that he favours grapefruit lip chap because it usually ends up in their washing machine. What Dylan doesn’t know is how it tastes. 

Not that it matters. 

He’s just curious, is all, being partial to the mint lip chap that Connor and by proxy, Dylan uses too. It makes his lips tingle in a good way, and Dylan isn’t sure if that’s what all lip chaps do. 

“Dude, umm—” 

Dylan blinks and focuses his eyes and he realizes he’s been zoning out on Mitch’s lips while he thought about similes and metaphors, and the aforementioned lips are somehow clamped around a pencil, while quirked up in half a smile. Dylan has half a beat to wonder what other expressions Mitch can make with something in his mouth, before he realizes. 

“Sorry.” Dylan is pretty sure his feet are blushing at getting caught, and where his thoughts were going. He shakes his head instead of looking Mitch in the eye. “Spaced out.”

“S’cool,” Mitch says. He sounds distracted, and he doesn’t seem inclined to finish the question he had for Dylan. Dylan chances a look up and realizes that Mitch is also blushing, though his face is not nearly as splouchy as Dylan’s probably is. 

“Um,” Dylan says. He frowns a little when Mitch looks up from his textbook quickly. His cheekbones might match the stupid pink colour of his lips now. “Uh, I forgot I have to bring this to Mikey. McLeod. Y'know.” 

Dylan holds up a piece of paper that he’s not sure has writing on it. He doesn’t check because Mitch is looking him right in the eye and he doesn’t want to look suspicious. 

“‘Kay.” Mitch’s gaze drops back to the book in his lap. 

Dylan stuffs what he can reach into his backpack and tries to walk normally to the door.

“See you in a bit,” he says awkwardly, putting on his shoes. He’s glad he’s already broken the back on these, so he can just slide his feet in.

“I’ll make dinner?” 

“Sure,” Dylan says, nodding slightly. Mitch is many things, including a good cook when he has the attention span to remember what’s on the stove. He’s taken to making dinners on nights that both he and Dylan— and Connor sometimes—are home in exchange for Dylan doing the dishes. 

Dylan puts his hand on the doorknob, but he can’t bring himself to leave, even though this might be the first time he’s ever felt awkward around Mitch and he doesn’t know what to do with his arms. 

“D’you think Connor’ll want grilled cheese?” Mitch asks, and it is a normal question, so Dylan doesn’t know why he looks abashed.

“Oh, he has practice and then some sort of team bonding,” Dylan says. Taylor Hall is an idiot on a mission and, according to Connor, gets offended when the team has a life outside of well, the team, so they have bi-monthly team bonding sessions that may or may not involve an escape room this week. 

“Oh.” Mitch pauses awkwardly, chewing on his lip. “Well. Do you want grilled cheese?”

“I always want your grilled cheeses,” Dylan says. He thinks he might sound too earnest for a conversation about sandwiches. Mitch looks pleased. 

“The mayo on the outside is a game-changer,” he says. 

“Best grilled cheese in the game,” Dylan agrees. He thinks Mitch’s blush gets a little darker then, and then Dylan remembers that he’s supposed to be actively trying not to make Mitch feel awkward so he opens the door.

“Uh— so, Mikey— um, I’ll be back.” 

“Yeah, uh, see you later.”

“Yep.” Dylan doesn’t move until Mitch looks away, down at his phone or textbook in his lap. “Bye.” 

Dylan closes the door quietly behind him, taking his phone out of his pocket. He’s dialing Mikey as soon as he’s in the hallway, before he even makes it to the stairs and breathes a sigh of relief when Mikey answers right away. 

“For the last time, no, Dylan, I don't think you and Connor need to go to couples therapy because you ate the last eggo and he wouldn't talk to you for an hour.” 

“What? No, that was one time. I’m having a crisis,” Dylan says. It’s echo-y in the stairwell, more dramatic than he expected. 

“Are you ever not having a crisis?” Mikey asks. Dylan rolls his eyes; you grow up next to a guy one time, make his older brother the subject of your sexual awakening, don’t talk to either of them for a long week and a half, and you never hear the end of it.

“Rude,” Dylan says. “I’ll tell your mother.” 

“Do it, she’d never believe you; she likes Nate more than you.”

“Why are you so mean to me?” Dylan whines. 

“I’m distracting you from your crisis,” Mikey says. 

Dylan’s at the bottom of the stairs, and he sits down, oddly touched. His friends are absolute assholes, but for that half a second, he had actually forgotten how much he might want to kiss Mitch. Dylan has been with Connor, has been happy with Connor for so long that he feels like he can’t remember wanting to kiss someone other than Connor. It’s a weird concept. 

“Still mean,” he says. It’s lame and a late comeback and Mikey has known Dylan his entire life so his voice is softer when he speaks again. 

“Don’t make me call Big Ryan to figure out what’s wrong, Dyl,” he says. 

“Big Ryan doesn’t know everything,” Dylan argues, but it’s half-hearted at best. His older brother has a knack for getting people to spill secrets. 

“I’ll call Little Matty then, and he’ll annoy you into talking.”

Dylan huffs because that’s true; Matty takes the role of Littlest Brother very seriously. “I think I want to kiss my roommate,” Dylan says. He chews on his lip while he waits for Mikey’s response, ideally wishing he had some lip chap. 

“I thought Connor was living at the hockey not-frat?” 

“Mikey.” 

“I know he said he’s not a frat, but anywhere Taylor Hall lives is a frat in my opinion— oh. Oh shit, the roommate from Craigslist?”

“Not Craigslist.” 

“Okay, Kijiji, whatever. Didn’t Connor think he would lure you to your death with a chocolate milk ice capp?” 

“Connor has a very vivid imagination.” Dylan breathes out through his nose. He hears Mikey make a considering noise.

“You’d never think that by looking at him.” 

“Mikey.” 

“Dylan,” Mikey mimics his serious tone. He pauses though, like he’s gathering his thoughts. “Is having a crush such a bad thing?” 

“Dumbass, I have a boyfriend.” 

“Yes.” Mikey uses the voice he uses when he thinks one of their brothers is being particularly stupid. “You have a boyfriend who loves you very much.” 

“I love him too!” 

“Yeah, we know. But Dylan, you dumb fuck, you can love more than one person at a time.” 

“I don’t love Mitch.” 

“Holy fuck, I hope he does murder you with an ice capp.” 

“Mikey, I’m having a crisis, so you’re going to have to use small words.” 

“Talk to your boyfriend, you idiot. Talk to him about your feelings for him and for Mitch and for him and make sure you’re on the same page.” 

And that— that makes sense. 

“Oh,” Dylan says, feeling kind of dumb after Mikey lays it all out like that. 

“Yeah _oh_. Fucking moron. Literally all your problems have been solved by you talking to people.” 

“Ugh.” Dylan pauses. “Thanks.” 

“I gotchu bro.” 

“Please don’t mention this to Ry though— he’s insufferable enough without knowing all of my business.” 

“If he offers to buy me food though, I’m helpless,” Mikey says unrepentantly, and hangs up.

Dylan stares at his phone for a long moment, mentally bemoaning the food-based morality of college students.

_X_

Connor is sprawled half on top of Dylan when he finally works up the nerve to ask him.

Mitch is out for the evening and probably won't be back, and Connor can't help but prod at the odd hollow place that leaves in his chest.

He wriggles closer to Dylan, which isn't really possible, but the movement makes Dyls tighten his arm around Connor's waist, so it's worth it. Connor presses his ear to Dylan's chest and zones out a little bit, listening to the symphony of Dylan's steady heart and breath mixing with the click of the ceiling fan, keeping the room just cool enough to justify the blankets they have piled on the bed.

“Dylan?” Connor whispers.

Dylan hums in response, rubbing his thumb back and forth on Connor's hip.

“You remember,” Connor starts, then stops to take a deep breath. “You remember how you said no one could take my place in your heart?”

Dylan blinks his eyes open and fixes his gaze on Connor, immediately so attentive and open that Connor could just cry. Dylan's arm doesn't loosen, and Connor forces himself to relax into it, to remember who he's talking to, that Dylan would never hurt him.

After all, he’s lying on top of Dylan to be close to him, not to hold him down.

“Do you think there's room in your heart for another person?”

Dylan's eyebrows furrow, but Connor barrels ahead before he can start. “Not _in_ my place, but beside it? Like a heart duplex.”

Dylan relaxes minutely. “Do you have any neighbors in mind?” he asks, and he sounds wary, but not angry, and Connor's fragile heart soars with hope.

“Maybe,” he hedges. “If you were open to it, I was thinking, maybe Mitch?”

The corner of Dylan's mouth quirks up and at any other time, Connor would kiss it, but he isn't sure he's allowed anymore. He's always been greedy.

“Do you have a crush on Marns?” Dylan asks.

Connor shrugs, an almost invisible movement, but Dylan's so close and has known him so long that he's bound to understand.

“Is that a yes?” Dylan teases gently.

“Yeah,” Connor says in a small voice. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Dylan sits up a little to study Connor's face. “Why are you sorry?”

Connor wants to say he's sorry that Dylan fell in love with him, that Connor doesn't deserve him. He's sorry that he went and caught feelings for Dylan's _roommate_ of all people, because Connor can't do anything right, apparently. 

But all Connor says is, “I want.”

Dylan hesitates a moment before whispering, “It's okay to want.”

Connor stares up at Dylan, at his furrowed brow and worried eyes. “But I have you,” he says, and it comes out broken.

Dylan nods. “You can have me and want Mitchy, too. Like, I don't think that's bad?”

Connor isn't so sure, and Dylan has always been able to read him like a book.

“Hey,” Dylan nudges him. “If you're a bad person for liking Mitch, then I am too.”

Connor's heart stops. “What?”

Dylan blushes. “I like him too. I like making him his tea in the morning and the way he makes you smile and listening to him bitch about exercise science majors.”

“And the way he looks doesn't hurt, does it?” Connor offers up shyly.

Dylan laughs. “God, he's pretty.” He jostles Connor a little. “Remember when I moved in, how you told me not to fall in love with him?”

Connor elbows him in the ribs. “You never do what I tell you anyway.”

“That's true,” Dylan says, smiling softly, fondly, full of love. “Wait,” he says. “Does that mean that, like, we could try if I wanted to?”

“Try what?”

“Heart duplex. Y’know.”

“You mean date Mitch?”

“If he'd let us.”

Connor exhales shakily. “If you want to, too, I want to try. If he'd let us.”

Dylan takes a deep, shuddering breath, and Connor can feel Dylan's heart racing. “Yeah,” Dylan says. “Yeah, I want to try dating Mitch.”

Connor presses a kiss over Dylan's heart and has to smile when Dylan tangles their fingers together.

“What if we, like, scare him?” Dylan asks, and Connor doesn't have to glance up to know Dylan is frowning the same way he does when he tries to do math.

Connor can't help the sad noise he makes. “I don't want to. I don't wanna hurt him or make him uncomfortable, it's just— he's—”

Dylan squeezes Connor's hand.

“He's ours,” Connor whispers. “Like, I love you, Dyls, so much, like, there's nothing missing in our relationship. But—”

He feels Dylan nod. “But he'd fit so well. Remember when we fell asleep on the couch and he was there when we woke up? I wanted to kiss him. I wanted you to kiss him. I wanna wake up like that,” he trails off.

“What if,” Connor starts. “What if we eased him into it before asking for real? To see how he reacts?”

"Do you think that would work?" 

Connor closes his eyes, lets himself sink in to the sound of Dylan's heartbeat, the smell of his skin. "I hope so," he says.

_X_

Mitch resurrects himself, mostly because his bladder has decided that it is time to be awake, and he isn't good enough at that Mind Over Matter shit Connor likes to ignore it.

His pulse feels like a hammer on the inside of his skull and his mouth tastes like death and dirty socks. Mitch makes a note to never drink tequila with Willy ever again. Seriously this time.

He makes it to the bathroom intact, doing his best not to wake up Dylan and Connor, and even survives doing his business, washing his hands, and brushing his teeth before he has to sit down.

The short walk to the kitchen takes him a while, because he's trying to do it without moving, which isn't working that well, but practice makes perfect. From there, all he has to do is dump some instant coffee into a bowl, fill it with water, and nuke it. It isn't tasty, but it'll make him feel human. Probably.

Mitch slouches at the breakfast bar, supporting his own head just enough that he can lap lukewarm coffee out of the bowl like a cat.

Seriously. No more tequila.

_X_

Connor wakes up wrapped around Dylan, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets. There's a narrow strip of sunlight cutting through the blinds, falling directly across Connor's face. Dylan seems to have avoided it because he's buried under the blanket with just the tip of his curls poking out. Connor tries to be bitter about being alone in his suffering, but his hopeless fondness wins out.

He untangles himself from Dylan, ignoring the half-conscious complaints that usually convince him to stay. Once he's upright, Connor trips over Dylan's backpack and almost dies, before finding a stray shirt that isn't smelly or stained with something suspicious.

The living room is still dark, so Connor assumes Mitch is still asleep, which means he's startled to find one Mitchell Marner asleep at the kitchen counter, scant centimeters away from drowning in a bowl of coffee with half dissolved granules floating in it.

“Mitch!” Connor’s heart is still racing and he presses a hand to his chest, like he can will it to slow down. He’s glad he bit down on the urge to shriek because he’s sure that Mitch— or Dylan when Mitch told him the story— would never let him live it down.

Mitch grumbles and flaps a hand at him, narrowly missing his bowl.

Connor suppresses a smile. Mitch is cute, even when he's hungover and grumpy, and Connor is secure enough to admit that.

Leaving Mitch alone, at least for now, Connor opens the fridge. There's a whole lot of nothing inside, and Connor rolls his eyes at Dylan's continued refusal to learn to cook. One of them has to be able to and it sure isn't going to be Connor.

Luckily, there's eggs and bacon, and omelettes are one of the two things Connor can confidently make.

He moves as quietly as possible and keeps most of the lights off, glancing over to check on Mitch every time he slips up and makes more noise than he means to.

Connor has to spend several long, messy minutes picking bits of shell out of the eggs, but it's worth it for the sizzling noise they make when he pours them into the hot pan. He makes one huge omelette with spinach and cheese, crisps up the bacon, and finds some bread in one of the cabinets to toast. He puts some water in the kettle for good measure and gets to lean against the counter while the bread toasts and revel in his satisfaction.

When it's all done, Connor cuts the omelette into thirds and plates it all up. He has to slide Mitch's bowl away from him so he can set down the plate, but Mitch probably shouldn't have been drinking cold coffee out of a bowl anyway.

Mitch's nose visibly twitches and he makes a garbled noise of confusion, but refuses to open his eyes. Connor laughs as quietly as he can.

“Mitchy,” he whispers, daring to reach out and comb his fingers through Mitch's hair, the same way he would when waking Dylan. It's a little bit tangled, but softer than he expected. “Mitchy, you need to eat something."

Mitch huffs and mumbles something that could be “coffee.” He tries to gesture at the bowl and his hand lands in his wedge of omelette. That, at least, is confusing enough for him to open his eyes and sit up a little.

“B’eakf’st?” Mitch asks, squinting at Connor.

Connor can't hold back his smile this time. “Yeah, bud, that's for you. Do you need Advil?”

Mitch's eyes widen hopefully. “D’y'have Advil?”

“You do, somewhere,” Connor says, and he has to turn around, mostly to get the pills, but a little bit so he doesn't do anything stupid, like kiss Mitch without Dylan.

He turns back around with the Advil and a glass of water to find Mitch eating the omelette like a piece of pizza. 

“D’you want a fork?” Connor asks. The look that Mitch gives him, all squinted eyes and scrunched nose, answers Connor’s question pretty clearly. He just grabs one set of cutlery for himself, and settles next to Mitch. 

It’s quiet while they eat except for their chewing, and if Connor is completely honest, this might be the quietest he’s ever seen Mitch, and he kinda misses the constant chatter that usually accompanies Mitch.

Dylan wanders out of his bedroom, wearing Connor's boxers and a McDavid shirsey Connor made him as a joke.

Dylan smiles a sleepy hello and beelines for the third plate, biting into a piece of bacon with a satisfied hum. He rounds the counter to sit on Mitch's other side, kissing Connor _good morning_ and _thanks for breakfast_ on his way by. Connor tilts his chin up to receive his kiss, warm and pleased.

He watches Dylan trail his hand across Mitch's back, just a little lower than could be called friendly, and feels something proprietary ignite in his belly.

Mitch smiles up at Dylan as he sits down, and Connor has a sudden craving for Dylan to lean down and put his lips on Mitch's.

 _Oh_ , he realizes. _This is for real._

_X_

The library is unusually busy for a random Tuesday morning and it’s noisy too. Mitch has to prod Auston with his toe to get his attention three times before Auston looks up from his work.

“What,” Auston says. He has a bit of ink smudged on the end of his nose. Mitch might tell him later.

“I need to tell you something, but you can’t laugh,” Mitch says. He hasn’t been able to concentrate on any of his work since he and Auston got to the library 45 minutes ago because Connor stayed over with Dylan last night and they had a movie night that turned into another cuddle puddle. No one fell asleep this time, but Mitch can’t stop thinking about the way the Dylan’s thumb felt rubbing his ankle bone, and how Connor probably didn’t realize he was playing Mitch’s hair like he plays with Dylan’s sometimes. 

Auston raises an eyebrow and takes out one AirPod. 

“I think Connor and Dylan share the same aftershave and that maybe that’s gross, but they smell like each other all the time and it’s really nice,” Mitch says as fast as he can. 

Auston snorts and takes out the other AirPod.

“It’s not funny,” Mitch says, groaning and covering his face with his hands. “They’re like, so perfect and disgustingly cute and fucking communicate so well and—”

“Mitchy,” Auston says suddenly, interrupting whatever Mitch was going to say about Connor’s habit of leaving things that go in the highest cupboard on the counter for Dylan to put away. “I’m gonna kick both their asses.”

“I mean, sure, you could probably take both of them, but maybe not together.” 

“Seriously Mitch.” 

Mitch looks up at Auston’s somber tone. 

“Either you’ve got to tell them to chill with the flirting or ask them both out because them jerking you around like this isn't cool." Auston kicks at him, but Mitch can tell his heart isn't in it. "Also because you’re giving me a headache, and I swear I’ll kick all of your asses.” 

“They’re not flirting,” Mitch says dumbly, knowing that his mouth hanging open is an unattractive look but Auston met him during their frosh week so he’s seen every part of Mitch that’s unattractive. 

Auston levels him with a look. “Mitchy, c’mon.” 

Mitch heaves a loud sigh, and gets shushed by a librarian completely ignoring that they’re not actually in the quiet part of the library. Auston turns his glare onto the librarian until he looks away and Mitch has finished digesting the possibility that Dylan and Connor have been flirting. 

It’s just— nothing about Mitch’s relationship with Dylan and Connor has changed since they met each other. Maybe the cuddle puddles are a little more frequent now when they settle together on the couch to watch a game or movie, but that’s just as much Connor’s fault as it is Mitch’s; it’s not just Mitch initiating the hanging out between the three of them is what he’s saying. He’s never been a third wheel with Connor and Dylan, and he thinks that’s probably one of the reasons his lines have been getting so crossed with how he feels about the two. 

Mitch stops tapping on his paper with that realization. 

He’s never been a third wheel because Connor and Dylan have always made him feel welcome, like a part of something special. It was never Mitch and Dylan-and-Connor the couple, always Mitch and Dylan and Connor, the three of them together. 

When Auston looks back at him, Mitch sticks his tongue out and gets another kick to his shin, this one landing hard.

“Don’t be an ass,” Mitch says. “I’m having a moment.” 

Auston mumbles something that sounds like, “so fucking dramatic,” but he’s already looking back down at his work and talking into his chest, so Mitch can’t be sure. 

“What if… what if they don’t actually like me back and I say something and ruin everything?” Mitch says, hating how small his voice goes, but needing to get that thought out of his head.

Auston looks up. “I told you: I’ll kick their ass.”

Mitch snorts and Auston keeps talking, scowling a little at Mitch.

“And if you need, I’ll help you move your shit into mine and Willy’s and we’ll figure it out.” 

Mitch kicks Auston’s shin, gently though, so he knows Mitch does appreciate him as a best friend.

_X_

Connor lets himself into his apartment, after spending the night at Dylan and Mitch’s, and does not appreciate the sarcastic claps he gets from his roommates. 

“You’re a dick,” Connor says, pointing at Taylor, who stuck the spoon he’s using to eat cereal standing at the counter in his mouth to clap the loudest. Nuge and Ebs are also in the kitchen, but they’re at the table doing homework. Or at least Nuge is probably doing homework. Ebs looks like he’s ignoring his in favour of playing around on his phone.

“Are you robbing us? Does anyone know who that is?” Ebs asks. 

“One night, I was gone one night,” Connor points out, checking the dishwasher for a clean bowl. He hip checks Taylor out of the way to wash a bowl. 

"Stand? One night _stand_?" Taylor jumps in. "This looks like a walk of shame!"

"Taylor…" Nuge warns.

"Right, right, no slut shaming," Taylor nods. "This looks like a walk of _fame_."

“You guys are stupid.” Connor feels his cheeks start to heat up. He turns in to the cupboard to look for the Mini Wheats box. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” Ebs asks. 

“He’s okay, a little stressed about his paper coming up, but me and Mitch think his thesis is good, he’s just being dumb,” Connor says, stretching to reach the box, which somebody (Taylor) has put out of reach. 

“How’s your other boyfriend?”

“Good, he just got a high B on his weird muscles exam thing? That he made me quiz him on last week. He's kinda mad that he didn't get the A, but I saw the email, he had the highest grade in the class and the bastard wouldn't curve it. Anyway, he's awesome.” 

Connor turns around just in time to see Ebs and Hallsy reluctantly sliding tens to Nuge, who collects the purple bills with a smug smile. Connor freezes, Mini Wheats clutched protectively in front of him. "What?" he asks. "What'd I miss?"

"You said Mitch was your other boyfriend," Nuge says, clearly taking pity on him.

"What? No— I didn't," Connor protests.

The three of them watch him silently, eerily in sync, as he replays the conversation in his head.

"Oh," he says finally. "Okay, that's not fair, I was distracted."

"That's like, exactly why it's fair," Ebs says. "Because you think of him as your other boyfriend, like, subconsciously."

Connor stares at Ebs, stamping down on the urge to point out that Nuge is the psychology major of his roommates. Connor knows a stupid amount about the inherent liminality of hero stories and the weird gross ways muscles interact with each other from listening to Dylan and Mitch talking about what they’re studying. Ebs is right, Connor knows, but after he and Dylan talked it’s been a bit harder than expected to broach the subject to Mitch. 

“We just got him back and you broke his brain? Goddamn Ebby.” Hallsy’s voice interrupts Connor’s thoughts about glass houses and stones and enjoying learning about what your partners are passionate about.

“I’m not broken,” Connor says, sniffing and finally getting the Mini Wheats box open. He pours it into the bowl. “We’re working on it.” 

There’s another beat and Nuge passes both tens over to Hallsy who looks fucking stoked. 

Connor tries to convey 'you should be ashamed' with his eyebrows, but they all stare back guilelessly, so he sighs as deeply as he can while Hallsy dramatically counts all two bills of his winnings. 

Nuge takes pity on him and asks, "What have you tried?"

Connor crunches through a mouthful of cereal before answering. "I told him he could draw arteries and shit on me if he needed to study more, but I said it in, like, a flirty way. Also Dylan pretended that Mitch's Leafs hoodie ended up in his laundry and wore it around the apartment."

“You’re so dramatic,” Ebs says, like one of his best friends isn’t Taylor Hall. “Use your words and it’ll work how it’s supposed to.” 

“That’s what Dylan said.”

“He’s a smart guy.” Ebs does finger guns and no one tells him how dumb he looks. 

_X_

Mitch's phone buzzes in class. 

He grimaces at it and hopes desperately that Dr. Dubas isn't in the mood to answer it for him. Luckily, he's busy rambling about evolutionary mistakes, and Mitch is able to sneak his phone out of his bag and mute it before checking the notification.

It's a text from Dylan, which just says, _movie nite?_

Mitch bites down on a smile to avoid being caught, and texts back, _what r we watching_.

He scribbles down a couple key terms from the slide on the screen, then Dylan responds, _whatever u want_.

Mitch quickly taps out, _lego batman_ , and hits send just before _except lego batman_ appears on his screen. He barely has to wait before it's followed by a message that just says _fuck_.

He grins despite himself, and then regrets it when Dr. Dubas asks what's so funny about joint mobility flaws.

_X_

Mitch is unreasonably excited for movie night when he gets home; it's been a few days since he's gotten the chance to hang out with both Connor and Dylan, and he kinda misses their combined company.

He is secure enough to admit that he misses the cuddles too. He's already planning his strategy to slowly migrate to playing with Dylan's curls before the halfway mark of the movie.

He swings the door open, drops his shit in the foyer, and follows a suspiciously loud clattering to the kitchen.

Mitch crosses the threshold just in time to see Connor touch a pot on the stove with his bare fingers, yelp, and shove about half his hand into his mouth.

Everyone freezes.

Dylan appears to be halfway to dumping spaghetti in a strainer. The sink is piled with dishes, the trashcan is sitting in the middle of the floor, lid off, and from the doorway, Mitch can see the burned remains of previous attempts.

"What," Mitch starts, even though he has no idea how to finish.

"We're making dinner!" Dylan bursts out, red from either the heat of the kitchen or embarrassment, Mitch can’t tell. "Or, like, we were trying to." 

Connor nods emphatically and Mitch has to look away before his mind wanders. The amount of hand in Connor's mouth is just… impressive.

Wait. Dinner and a movie.

But it isn't any different from their usual plans, except he isn't the one cooking.

“Wait,” Mitch says. “Are we fucking _dating_?”

Dylan and Connor stare at him, Connor’s fingers still in his mouth and his hair sticking up higher than Mitch has ever seen it, like two pairs of hands have been running through it.

“You should run that under water,” Mitch says, rather than ask why Dylan and Connor are making dinner for a date that all three of them are apparently on. There’s so many reasons why Mitch cooks while Connor and Dylan do dishes, and most of them are probably in the trash right now.

Connor shakes his head, fingers in his mouth. His eyes are huge and wide, and he kinda looks dumb, and Mitch can’t believe how his heart clenches at the sight of Connor next to Dylan, who looks just as shocked. Mitch sighs and crosses the kitchen to grab Connor’s arm and maneuvers him over to the sink where he blasts the cold water. Connor makes a sound in the back of his throat when the cold water touches his skin and Dylan rocks forward onto his toes in an aborted motion, like he can do anything to make Connor's fingers hurt less.

They all stare at the water running over Connor’s hand, and down his and Mitch’s sleeves, for a long moment. 

“You can't just stick a burn in your mouth, dummy,” Mitch says, trying to sound normal. “You have to run it under cold water to suck the heat out.”

“Oh,” Connor says, softly. “I didn’t know.”

"That's what you're here for," Dylan says, so much closer than Mitch thought he was. “You're good for us.”

Mitch takes a deep breath, willing his heart to stop racing, stop hoping. He might be imagining it, but under his fingers, Connor's pulse is beating almost as rapidly in his wrist.

Mitch braces himself, darts a glance at the door in case he has to run, and repeats, “Are we dating?”

He can feel Connor tense in his carefully lax grip.

"... Please?" Connor says weakly, then "Hey!" when Dylan whacks his arm.

"That was not the plan," Dylan hisses.

"Plan?" Mitch asks. He feels a little like he's going to either pass out, die, or wake up.

"We are very, very far from the plan, Dylan!" Connor hisses back, looking flustered. He doesn't yank his wrist out of Mitch's hand, so Mitch counts it as a win.

There’s an entire conversation via eyes and face scrunching, which is weird because Dylan has one of the best poker faces that Mitch has ever seen. It’s weirder still that Mitch can follow most of the silent conversation, and can’t help the blush that starts when he realizes that yes, Connor and Dylan want him in the same way that Mitch wants them, and are mostly arguing over who has to say it.

Mitch shuts off the sink and basks a little bit in the way it makes their attention snap to him.

He turns around and grabs Dylan's arm with his other hand, partially so neither of them can escape, but mostly because he can't say this without touching them.

“How long have we been dating?” he asks.

They both turn scarlet and Mitch would laugh in any other circumstance.

“I mean—” Connor starts. He looks up and slightly to the left; his remembering face, Mitch knows from always watching him try to remember where he put his pen during a study break. “Maybe a week? Two weeks? I don’t know.” 

Dylan’s slowly putting up fingers with the hand that Mitch isn’t holding, mouthing something to himself.

“How can you not know you’re dating someone?” Mitch asks. He somehow both feels and sees Dylan’s pointed look. “You never asked!”

Dylan has the decency to look chagrined. “We were scared you'd say no,” he confesses to the floor.

Mitch can barely wrap his head around what their scheme must have been, let alone the idea that he'd ever turn them down.

“Were you ever going to _tell me_ ," he demands, more high pitched than he wants, but most of his focus is going towards crushing the urge to pull Dylan close, to call him baby, to assuage his worries. Connor has the worst anxiety of the three of them, but Dylan is a close second. He just hides it better.

Connor mumbles something from where he's half tucked behind Dylan.

“What?” Mitch squawks. He feels like he's losing his mind more and more with each second the two of them spend in front of him, looking like they've been called to the principal's office.

“That's what we were going to do _tonight_ ,” Connor repeats louder. “It was gonna be romantic as _shit_.”

Dylan nods excitedly, apparently forgetting his previous worry. “We were gonna make dinner and watch whatever you wanted and, like, slowly slide our arms across the back of the couch. We have wine and everything."

“Bottled too, not the stuff in the box,” Connor says, spinning to point to the counter. There are actually two bottles of wine there by the stove, one red and one white and both with little splatters of sauce on them.

“Well,” Mitch says. “We don’t wanna waste the wine. You should—" he clears his throat, and can’t help but stamp down on the bubble of happiness that starts in his toes and floats all the way up his body. “—you should try again.” 

“What?”

Mitch looks up at them through his lashes. "You should try again. I'm a big fan of being romanced when I know what's going on."

Dylan scoffs, but Mitch can see the smile he's trying to hide. "When do you ever know what's going on?"

Connor elbows Dylan in the side. "Shh, that's not very romantic."

“Neither is burning dinner. Twice, Davo.”

“It's not my fault you're hot when you're focussed,” Connor says, looking smug, and Mitch notices the hickey peeking out of the neck of Dylan's shirt.

Dylan rolls his eyes fondly, swiping a hand down Connor’s cheek, in half a face-wash. Connor leans into the touch easily, and must see the open longing that Mitch feels at the easy touch between the two because Connor pulls Mitch into his and Dylan’s space. 

Mitch’s feet take that step before his brain really catches on and suddenly he’s nose to nose to nose with Dylan and Connor both. Dylan is still a little bit red, and his hair is curling around his temples, while Connor’s lips are visibly puffy and Mitch hopes it’s sauce that’s streaked down his shirt. 

Mitch thinks they’re beautiful. 

“Hi,” Mitch says softly. 

“Hey,” Connor says.

“Sup,” Dylan says. 

They all grin at each other. 

Mitch isn’t sure who moves first, but he's pretty sure Connor's fingers are tangled in his hair, keeping him in place for Dylan's mouth to meet his, hot and tomato sauce flavored. Mitch fumbles helplessly at the backs of their shirts until he has one tangled in each hand, anchored.

Mitch squeaks a little when Dylan bites at his lower lip. Mitch feels Dylan’s huff of laughter when he pulls back to breathe, their lips are barely brushing and Connor takes that opportunity to drag Mitch his way, taking his turn. His kiss is gentler, less bitey, and tastes like mint lip chap.

Mitch smacks his lips together thoughtfully. “Have you considered the grapefruit flavor? It's yummy.”

Connor's stomach growls and he pouts a little at Dylan, who rolls his eyes again.

“We have some soggy pasta and uh," he looks at the stove like he's expecting it to rear up and bite him. “Crusty sauce, if you wanna scrape it off the pot.”

Mitch winces. He refuses to be the one who cleans that up.

“Skip?” he offers.

Connor nods eagerly. “Skip!”

They turn to Dylan, who's biting his lip and staring at Mitch's mouth. Mitch smirks.

“Dylan?” Connor says, nudging him.

“Hm?”

“Skip?” Connor prompts patiently.

“In a minute,” Dylan decides, pulling Mitch back in.

Connor's groan turns into something more guttural when Dylan brings him in to the mix for a kiss once he’s done with Mitch. Mitch doesn’t look away like he might’ve done before, and now that he’s allowed to look, he looks. Connor and Dylan move against each other with the same sense of familiarity that they chirp each other with, and Mitch can’t wait to get there too, the give and take of their bodies that make room for him.

Mitch takes the space given feeling like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. 

_X_

**EPILOGUE:**

“Wait,” Mitch says into the post-coital quiet. “What made you two decide to stop torturing me and finally make a move?”

“Oh!” Dylan says, pressed up against Mitch's side. “It's a fucking weird story.”

Connor snickers into Mitch's chest. “Some dude nearly ran over Dyls.”

Mitch tenses. “He wh—”

Dylan reaches up to pet the side of Mitch's face. “Shh, I'm fine, you can even double check that I've got all the right parts.”

Mitch relaxes but still side-eyes his boyfriend (boyfriend!).

“So, anyway,” Dylan says. The petting has faded into Dylan gently cupping Mitch's jaw. “I was walking back from campus and the little crosswalk dude comes on, so I go to cross, right? Only, then some guy roars up in a fancy car and slams his brakes like half a meter from me!”

Connor gasps dramatically and gets pinched on the hip for his trouble.

“And then this super hot blonde model dude rolls down the window and goes, 'if you don't stop fucking him around, next time I might forget which is the brake. Canadian cars are so confusing,'” Dylan says in a bad Swedish accent. “And then he told me to have a nice day and just rolled up his window and waited for the light to change.”

They both stare at him expectantly, waiting for a laugh.

Mitch closes his eyes and rolls onto his back. “Was the car an obnoxiously red sports car?” he asks, suddenly more tired than he's ever been.

“Yeah,” Dylan says slowly. “Why?”

Mitch sighs.

“That was my last roommate's boyfriend, William.”

“Oh!” Connor exclaims, far too pleased at this revelation. “The hot Swedish roommate stealer!”

“Yeah,” Mitch says, and momentarily wishes he could dissolve into his bed. “I'm so sorry he did that.”

“It’s okay.” Dylan shrugs, looking pretty okay with having been threatened bodily harm by a random person. Mitch is still probably going to have to have a conversation with Willy— and Auston probably— about boundaries though. “It got our asses in gear,” Dylan continues. 

“You’re kinda a weirdo,” Mitch says, and he means it as a chirp, but it comes out soft and his fingers have ended up in Dylan’s hair again, so he tugs on the ends. Dylan makes a face that should be unattractive, caught between wrinkling his nose and leaning into Mitch’s touch. Mitch is stupidly fond of that face. 

“Our weirdo,” Connor reminds Mitch, poking at his chest with one hand, while squishing Dylan’s cheeks with the other. 

And that— well, Mitch is absolutely okay with that.

**Author's Note:**

> (some of) the majors, if you're interested:  
> Dylan: english, concentrating on mythology  
> Connor: history, specifically Canadian  
> Mitch: kinesiology, probs on track to be a physical therapist  
> Auston: business/marketing with a minor in fashion design  
> Willy: political science, concentrating on international relations  
> Ebs: ???  
> Nuge: Psychology, with a concentration in wrangling his boyfriends  
> Hallsy: ???  
> Mikey: ???
> 
> let us know what you think!! (of the majors and/or overall fic!)
> 
> Please talk to Ant about the inherent liminality of hero stories


End file.
